He had to get out fast. She was right behind him, but he did not care. Around them, the music was booming. He opened a metal door and leaped outside, into the cold night. There were some fashionable punks in the alley, smoking designer cigarettes, talking about poetry and money. He ran past all of them.
“Wait, stop!” she screamed, as he was about to reach the street. He stopped. “Marcel, please, you have to come back. You’re a star. We need you.”
“I’m just a pretty face to you. A set of abs. And my head is only good for displaying my fantastic hair.”
“But you are an artist. An artist of the body. People take pictures of you because you can do what they cannot. You can stick to a diet and exercise. You are the golden snake that our ancestors prayed to.”
He turned around. She was past her pretty years, but in the dead glare of streetlight he could not see her crow’s feet. She seemed young and innocent again, not a producer, but an artist of the body. Like him.
“No,” he shook it off, “You will never fool me.”
And he ran like the wind.